Soldier's Peak and Skyhold
by Reyavie
Summary: Not even the Calling would keep the Warden-Commander completely away. Moments in time of a larger story.
1. Fraude

_A.N. - I guess Inquisition did manage to stir all the plot bunnies. This is just an exercise, basically, and can be read by itself or as an extension of Denerim and Rainesfere/ Redcliffe and Amaranthine where the story of Tasha Tabris is described. Might add a couple more chapters simply because I did feel sorry Bioware didn't include the Warden properly.  
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**xxxXXXxxx**

"This was good, Bull. Thank you." The Inquisitor didn't seem a harsh woman. There was something that spoke of a warrior in the making underneath her skin but everything else was soft and gentle like a newborn lamb. Half the time, the Qunari expected her to start muffling them against the cold or make sure they had their soup at night. The Iron Bull had to confess himself impressed that once pushed into a battleground the noblewoman appeared to handle herself just fine.

Nobles in the North were fed more iron than he thought to begin with.

Once the human made her way out, Bull moved from his chair to sit on the other side of the chess board, waiting until the brown-haired woman acknowledged him. She had surprised him too, so easily playing the hateful city-elf to the bone, so easily keeping her words little and her origin so downplayed that it could have applied to any city from Denerim to Par Vollen. Skinner indeed.

"Well, Grey? What do you think?"

The elf didn't raise her head from the game, teeth gnawing absently on a nail as she considered the moves. Her eyes spared him no attention either, dark, blue and very focused. "I think Grey is incredibly on the nose as a nickname," she commented, callused fingers moving a piece after some hesitation. The heavy Orlesian accent she had been using until that moment faded into a much more natural Ferelden, tinged with faint traces of Denerim. "Better than Skinner though. You made me sound like a madwoman."

"You made yourself sound like one." He had half-expected her to unsheathe a dagger and proceed to exemplify once the Inquisitor pressed for her story. "Paid to kill shems?"

His large hand reached for a pawn, moving it silently.

"Shems, darkspawn, I get confused sometimes. Lack of proper education, you see." What Bull saw was her hand moving once more, gripping a tower forward as if she was not paying attention.

For a long moment neither spoke. It had been the woman's idea, this subterfuge. Coming out of nowhere with gold in her pockets and a wish to see the Keep from the inside. It had taken Bull quite a good amount of time to join the small clues in order to discern her identity and even more to trust she wouldn't interfere in any way he found to be prejudicial to his Inquisitor.

And he kind of liked her, the elf who could pass unnoticed in one moment and turn into a murderer out of legend the second she caught whiff of a touch of taint on the wind. And had a sense of humor, dry and so cynical that he half expected one of their Revered Mothers to jump from the shadows and slap her upside the head. It was a good thing. He was done with people not allowing themselves to relax for even a moment. Guess she had had enough of that during the Blight.

Bull almost missed the way she smiled as she picked up the conversation. "Why would you want my opinion, Bull?" The elf asked lightly. "You are her man, life and heart. Like Sten was to me."

His brow furrowed deeply. "You mean the Arishok."

"I know exactly what I mean." Her tone didn't bother to change even as her hands wavered over the board. "The Arishok is not my man. Sten is. Sten was the one in Denerim and Redcliffe, in Haven and Orzammar. He is the one I know and the one I would walk through fire to defend. The Arishok is to me what the Commander is to him."

If she needed to go to Antiva, would she walk to the Tevinter and back first? "You are very good at reflecting the questions, Grey," he commented blandly. "What's up with that?"

For the first time, her calm demeanor was broken. There was honest surprise in what little he could read of her expression at that comment, as if she hadn't noticed what she was doing until that exact moment. Her mouth even opened, a neat little circle which was quickly replaced with a self-deprecating grin.

"I'm sorry." And she actually seemed to mean it. "When you spend as much time as I bothering with nobles, you forget some people honestly want replies instead of playing games." Her hands entwined, fingers tightened and tense. It reminded him oddly that the woman wasn't surrounded by her own people but by those who, merely a month before, had seen the Wardens at their very worst. And she seemed tired. Tired and alone. "You chose well. She might have no idea what she's doing and why she's doing it half the time, but she's trying incredibly hard not to let it stop what needs to be done. Sometimes that's what you need. Someone who stumbles through things and keeps going on because it's the right thing to do."

"You approve?"

The Warden shrugged, tugging another piece forward. Somehow, somewhere during the game, his pieces had begun leaving their battleground, silently, absently, almost without his notice. "It's not my task to approve. But I like her, for whatever that's worth."

Another play, both games pushed forward.

"So why did you come here?" He persisted.

"You ask too much, Ben-Hassrath." Another moment of break, velvet sliding to reveal a trace of steel underneath, all hidden underneath a polite smile and her apparent frailness faded like fog in the early morning. "What's up with that?"

Bull grinned widely at the woman. "I _am_ a spy, Grey." What else did she expect? "Though I'm not sure how you know that."

That little smile, that slight twitch of amusement and the small movement across the board. This time, he could see his Tamassran in danger. "I pay attention."

And so did he. Their conversation faded into the soft voice of the ministrel and the notes of the instrument. Between the beginning of their conversation and that moment, the rest of his company had found their own places to be; their silence and unwillingness to interfere in what they deemed to be the boss's problem was a credit to the men he was guiding. He'd dare say the setting was comfortable. He loved commotion and a good battle like any other warrior but sometimes, he longed for the calmness of his home. Where one warrior could go back and sit down, allow the Qun to flow heavily through his body, feel the tamassrans hands resting on his arms in silent approval – like mothers because that was what they were – look everywhere and see known features and not the pale skins of humans and elves.

And who knew what the Warden was thinking? Her eyes didn't move from the board, cautious fingers prodding pieces here and there when necessary. Every now and then, he would grasp the hint of a frown, the pressed lips of disapproval, the thin lines of worry. Watching her carefully as he was, Bull couldn't help but notice that she wasn't that old, physically wise. Young for an elf, that was a certainty. But it was the thoughts behind that youthful skin, the traces of worry which kept slipping through which aged her five, ten, fifteen years.

"I needed to know." Bull didn't expect her to speak. She didn't even seem to be speaking to him, all of her attention on the small carved pieces as if they contained her whole world in their grasp. One of them rested in her palm, a small pawn, analyzed from side to side revealing no answers in its stony surface. "I came here because I needed to hear from everyone's lips how much we did wrong. I needed to know this woman was right. I needed to know we can't expect people not to blame us when we make decisions which end in death and sacrifice of others." The piece almost crumbled as her hand closed around it, strong and unyielding. "I needed to know so I won't ever do it myself."

"And what will you do now that you know, Grey?"

"Clean up the house. Good thing you already burn it down. Makes things easier." Bull would have believed if her tone didn't carry that undertone. Guilt, horror, sadness, everything warred underneath her words. "I leave for six months and the Wardens go _insane_," she whispered. "As if I hadn't left people in charge. As if they hadn't enough to do rather than listening to power hungry monsters. As if they can't recognize empty promises after this long. I was so sure things would be calm for a while."

A small sound told Bull the pawn was nothing more than crumbled pieces.

"I meant personally."

But the Warden's patience seemed to have evaporated, like a soldier who had heard the calling for battle. She rose from her chair, sweeping her long hair back underneath a dark hood and moved a final piece, neatly finishing up the game. No muss, no fuss.

"Drop by Leliana or she will smack me with her quiver when she finds out I was here and planned on leaving without telling her," she informed simply, firmly locking him away from her thoughts. "Thank you for this, Bull. It felt comfortable."

The elf paused before leaving, looking over her shoulder at the setting with something which was that close, just a hair width away from gratitude.

"Sten would have won."


	2. Dishonesty

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Who in the Maker's name are you?"

Thom Rainier wasn't a weak man. He was tall, broad and thick like a log, someone who had spent his entire life battling other men, old and experienced far beyond at least half the Inquisition. It meant he should be surprised at how easily he had been surprised and even more at how he had been manhandled by a slip of a woman. His arm had been twisted viciously behind his back, the back of his knees kicked forward as to force him to kneel and a blade placed against his throat.

"The name is Blac—"

"Don't you dare lie to me!" The blade inched closer. "Even if I didn't know Blackwall, which I _do_, I would know you're no Warden! Where's Blackwall? Why are you passing by one of them? Why are you lying to these people? Of course you can't hear the calling; I can't feel an inkling of the taint in your veins!" And then cut, the sharp pain drawing a steady slow stream of blood into his shirt. "If I don't like the reply, you die right here. Don't think otherwise."

The man gripped the wrist closer to him, trying to dislodge the attacker but it was like trying to move a mountain. The flesh underneath his didn't as much as twinge, even as he applied all his strength against it. A Warden, he realized. She could only be a Warden, a real one. An unpleased one. He raised his eyes to her, seeing only a flash of brown hair and dark tattoos on light skin, hidden underneath a dark cloak. The pressure against his back spoke of, at least, an armored chest.

"He conscripted me."

The hand on his arm tightened even further. He felt the bones strain to resist the onslaught of strength.

"I'm telling the truth," he continued desperately. "When he discovered my story, he believed I would be an asset, he conscripted me into the Wardens but whe—" The story blurted out of his lips, his shame and horror in a torrent of regret. He said it all, why he was there, where he had come. He spoke of Blackwall's death, brave and useless, he spoke of his failure to save the man, of how the world didn't need him anymore, maybe never had, but it had needed that black haired man with bravery beyond words and maybe, just maybe, he could try to be it for the rest of the world.

During it all, his captor didn't comment. The string of words was accepted and assimilated without reaction and during it all, the man marveled at how little her arms shook with the effort of keeping him and a blade still.

"So you are telling me he gave his life for yours? For a murderer? That makes no sense. Unless." Her arms released him and he could finally turn to the woman. There was little more information to be gathered. Armor with the pattern of the Griffon, heavy, another testimony to the stupid strength the woman seemed to carry. But she was such a small woman, foolishly thin, barely out of her twenties, he'd wager, and her frown made her seem comically younger. "Unless he was that close to his Calling? I was _sure_ he had more time."

Her eyes though. Rainier found himself staring up at those eyes without understanding why. They weren't cold or enraged. They were impassive, blue like a still lake and just as immovable. It felt like their owner was gathering all the clues for a mystery, turning them over and over in her hands and mind and deciding upon his very life like she had every reason to do so. And for the life of him, he couldn't feel like she shouldn't and he couldn't even explain why.

"You are not worthy to be him," she sentenced quietly. "The Blackwall I knew wouldn't be caught dead in a lie. Thought it was far easier to punch his way through a problem. Found it beneath him to bother with lying to anyone who deserved the slightest bit of respect. Too much work, he said, and he was never one to waste any work he needed to have done."

With those words, the woman had announced she had known the man, not just the Warden, and the crime of using his name felt more personal and more dangerous. She was armed, he noticed. Two large swords rested against her hip and a smaller one peaked from her boot.

"I can't claim the honor of being a Warden but I didn't—"

"And all this talk about _honor_," she interrupted abruptly. It was like he had said nothing and whatever he had wouldn't matter in the long run." I've been a Warden for over ten years and I'll never understand why people believe that being one is an honor." There was weariness and dryness in her tone both, like one stating a truth which was so obvious that it bypassed her how someone could not see it. "It's not," the woman continued. "It's bloody, dirty, harsh grueling work. But I guess if we didn't fool everyone, no one would want to join us."

What could he say to that? What else did someone like him deserved? So the former Chevalier said nothing and waited.

On her side, the Warden seemed to be nursing a migraine. "Fine. As he wished. You are conscripted, Ser. I will honor Blackwall's choice, you will confess the truth to your Leader and, when this is done, you'll walk to Soldier's Peak, present yourself to the Warden-Commander and accept whatever takes place. Or I will come and enforce the rite for myself. You won't want that. I'm generally louder and more violent."

There was a flash of a smile underneath the hood.

"How will I introduce myself?" Blackwall was his ideal, ever since that night, ever since he had said there was another road and this woman was saying, even though he had lied and stolen, that road was still wide open. "How will they know I am conscripted?"

Another smile, amused and just as dangerous.

"I happen to have a good memory."

The barn became empty with a couple of steps, allowing the man to sink painfully on a nearby chair. His shirt was already blood stained and his legs complained loudly over the large amount of time spent against the floor. None of that mattered. His fate was sealed.

Rainier briefly wondered if the Archdemon had had the time to feel anything like he was doing at the moment.


	3. Reunion

**xxxXXXxxx**

Morrigan didn't notice her immediately. Years fighting in shadows had apparently given the woman something of their own nature. The elf waited patiently at the threshold of her room, watching as the witch waited for the boy to fall asleep. All the while, she smiled and the smile was so familiar, it brought back nights around a fire, confessions and a tentative friendship formed between one which had never managed to befriend another race and one who had lacked the chance to befriend anyone.

"You are not supposed to be here."

She had no idea she would miss the woman. And she had no idea her throat would tighten upon meeting her once more.

"You'll find I tend to be in all the places I am not supposed to be," the other woman replied quietly. "Teagan doesn't mind it nearly as much as he says."

"In case you have not noticed, I am not your husband, Tasha."

_Tasha_. The name hadn't left her lips in years. It was always Warden-Commander or the Arlessa or the Hero. Never Tasha because that woman was her friend – or had been her friend – and to remember was to miss and Morrigan most certainly did not miss anyone, especially not her long-lost first friend.

The elf's footfalls were soft and almost silent as she entered, stopping right by her, a heavy hand falling against her shoulder. Morrigan almost shivered, almost recoiled. No one touched her bar Kieran those days and the weight on her skin was so comforting, so familiar, the witch felt a ridiculous wish to swallow. She closed her eyes instead, strongly, for one beat of her heart. On her shoulder, fingers tightened and refused to let go.

"He looks strong," Tasha whispered softly. "A good boy. Gentle. I spoke to him a little in the garden."

A shiver ran through her spine. "How did you do that? I didn't see you!"

"Again, I'm good at being unnoticed when I want to." Tasha leaned over her to touch a strand of her boy's hair, caringly, almost reverently. "I was going to ride to Redcliffe but I couldn't just walk by. Leliana would be incredibly angry." It was more than that, wasn't it? The way Tasha looked at Kieran, her blue eyes filled with affection, it spoke of something Morrigan couldn't understand completely. "You saved me and you saved him. I never thanked you."

She _knew_. Someone, she knew it wasn't _just_ Kieran sleeping in that bed.

Morrigan pulled back as if suddenly stabbed, her eyes open in sudden surprise. "How do you…?" _No. Don't laugh. Don't you dare laugh about this_, _Tasha._

And she wasn't. The elf's features were contorted in an expression which seemed unfamiliar. This was the Commander, the woman who had been born out of the Warden Morrigan had known. Older and wiser and infinitely more dangerous if she wished to be.

"I took the final blow, Morrigan. There's no real way I wouldn't know. We were one for a moment and I would never forget." The witch's eyes opened widely at that. They were? That moment, she had already walked back, ready to flee before anyone noticed. Tasha had kept her memories secret, safely stored away as something sacred and her gestures towards the boy were all of affectionate and loving, as if he was her own child. The urge to take hold of Kieran faded, an imaginary threat fading into the shadows. "You did good to him. He feels happy. Like the world will be just fine as long as you are around to keep him safe. I felt the same towards my mother."

And that, as far as Tasha went, was it. It was the greatest compliment she could do about Morrigan's choices and the consequences they brought. Thoughts kept running through the black-haired woman's head, why, how, was she sure, what was she hiding, were they _connected_ and invariably they returned to that elf and how absolutely honest each and every word leaving her lips was.

"Thank you," Morrigan replied. _Honestly_. It even surprised herself.

It drew another smile from her friend.

"Will you be staying?" The witch asked after a long silent moment. "The Seeker kept asking about your whereabouts. Surely, it wou—"

Tasha was already shaking her head even before the sentence was over. "I have my own tasks to undertake. Varen will have the Wardens returned to Soldier's Peak soon, according to the messages I received. Distance keeps us from feeling the Calling, you see?"

"How about Corypheus?"

The Warden scoffed lightly. "Please. There will always be one big monster to destroy or another demon or another dragon and Maker forbid any of them is not world-threatening. The Inquisitor has things well on hand. My presence here would serve little bar undermine her alliance with our order. No." Another shake of the familiar face. "I will be more useful back home, making sure the Wardens actually help the Inquisition instead of worsening the situation. Really. What in the world was going through Clarel's mind…?"

It felt truth but it wasn't the _whole_ truth and it felt so good to still be able to see it. This woman had learned to keep secrets as well. As any good Warden.

"'Tis hard for you to be here," Morrigan declared dryly.

"For all us." There. Laughter and that was Tasha all over again, the elf who could find some amusement in dark corners, who liked prodding people merely because she could. She wasn't just the Warden-Commander and that allowed Morrigan to breathe easy once more. "Like someone calling me to rest when I am dead sure I don't feel like sleeping any time soon. Tiresome but ignorable. I'd rather the rest of us kept ignoring it as well, even if I have to drag them kicking and screaming all the way."

"And there's your Arl."

"Another reason for my detour. I will be having words with Fiona before leaving." Morrigan had a brief image of the type of words Tasha had with people who raised a hand against her family and, clearly, didn't care enough to intervene. "Oh, don't worry." The mage certainly didn't. "I won't kill her. Alistair would have my hide. That doesn't mean I can't have a serious conversation with the woman who threw my family onto the streets."

If there was a way that conversation wouldn't become violent, Tasha had changed more than Morrigan could ever predict.

"You truly cannot stay?"

Instead of replying, Tasha leaned closer, arms enveloping the witch's shoulders. Morrigan closed her eyes. On that moment, they were back in Denerim, back on the very top of Fort Draken with the roar of Urthemiel on their ears and death on Tasha's eyes. _Make sure you have a long life, you hear me?_ And Morrigan had. Every day since then, every time she heard the undertone of Urthemiel's soul slipping through his child's demeanor.

"When this is over come to Redcliffe. You will always have a home there." The last thing Morrigan felt before the elf slipped away was a final kiss on her forehead, a very first touch of care. "And tell my godson I expect a proper hug when you arrive."

And she wondered if it would be possible.


	4. Wolf

**xxxXXXxxx**

The elf was unknown. Solas couldn't claim to know all those of the People walking inside the Castle's walls but he thought he should recognize this one, branded as she was. Unlike the Dalish, deluded gentry carrying slave marks, the dark tattoos swimming across her skin had no meaning he could discern. They wove in and out on her left cheek, enveloped her eye, slipped and hid beneath her hairline, uncaringly covered by wisps of brown hair.

She also carried armor, heavily emblazoned with the Warden insignia and an apparent lack of knowledge of how its presence made her a pariah and lowered his estimation of her character.

"Is this your work, scholar?" A gauntleted hand pointed at his half-painted walls, eyes waving from picture to picture as if trying to determine the meaning written underneath.

"Solas."

The woman looked back at him uncomprehendingly.

"My name, Warden," he clarified bluntly. "And yes, it would be my work."

"Ah."

_Ah_. The genius at work. No wonder Wardens ended playing with far more than they ought to. The raw material mattered and no amount of taint would give competency to where there was none.

She said nothing else, turning to his pictures. Taking a seat on his chair, Solas followed her movements across the room, reaching out for a figure at odd moments. Dalish would do the same. They would read beyond the lines with blackened lenses, turning the words upside down in search for some meaning which might make sense instead of the obvious story they told. But she wasn't Dalish, this girl. Everything in her screamed one of those raised in the cities, lacked tradition and memory, even wisdom.

As beloved as those were to his heart, he couldn't decide if no memory was better than the bastard child of it.

"What are you searching for?"

Solas didn't ask himself why he had begun talking. The loneliness, maybe, the long sleep, the sheer lack of anything familiar bar the small traces of magic the Inquisitor kept finding. Or simple annoyance from seeing his refuge so bluntly violated.

"Whatever you tried to preserve here," the woman replied quietly without turning to him. Her eyes were far too engaged with the shadowy form of a man. "Can't say I understand. It's like…"

Like the reflection in a quiet lake. Like the mountains hiding underneath the morning fog. Like he could close his eyes and will time back, his People safe and protected and not destroyed by their own hands.

"Does it matter?"

"No? Yes?" Genius at work, indeed. She seemed as confused about her own reply as she was by the crude pictures on the wall. "It feels like it should. It feels like something out of a dream. Why would you do it otherwise?"

If he didn't, he would go mad with the guilt. Better to be useful. Better to be practical.

"I missed your name." Better to hide the wolf well underneath the mage, bury the beast beneath the scholar until his mistake was erased and he learned what to do next.

"Tasha. Tasha Guerrin."

Only one of those names was elvhen, unless he was very mistaken.

"You are a Warden."

Her lips twisted in a half-smile and her eyes refused to abandon his paintings. "I told them not to brand me but no one listened. And you are a mage."

"It seems we are doomed to state the obvious."

"It is far easier than coaching replies away from mages. They tend to be far smarter than I am."

"It is a burden you will have to bear," Solas commented lightly. "Or you can actually make a question instead of hoping the other will say what you want to know."

The female stopped in her place, her head turning to him. Blue eyes, calculating, still a novice. Then again, who wouldn't be one next to him? "It isn't nearly as much interesting if I ask for the answers instead of trying to figure it out." And that too sounded young and fragile. There was a point in existence where curiosity faded. It came with knowing too much; it was so very simple.

"Wardens figuring out things haven't exactly yielded the best results."

It was beneath him. This blow was beneath him. Solas realized that when pain fleeted through the girl's eyes, narrowing them into slits for a mere moment; a sharp sting which spelled contempt before being swept underneath whatever lie the woman would prefer. It had not been her. They had had their reasons. The greater good was more important. There were countless she could use.

But she used none of them and the mage could almost see the tension slipping from her body with every passing second. "Neither did elves." Again, she smiled, a small mocking smile which caused no harm. "But I am hoping neither of us begins a war because of a mural."

"Wouldn't put it past you," he heard himself retort. "You people managed to start one because of a song."

"It's a damn catchy song if it makes you feel any better."

"Tasha?"

Surprise interrupted their little battle. Both elves looked towards its origin, to the red-haired soldier which seemed now far younger than she usually did with the touch of wonder splashed all over her expression, before looking back at each other. Solas felt like a child caught by a parent doing some inane thing and if that wasn't strange, he didn't know what else could be. Worse was that it _was_ inane, it was ridiculous to exchange barbs with a creature whose age couldn't come to close to amount to his. But he had been and the Warden seemed not to care, smiling yet again; a slow grin, a little impish as if her thoughts mirrored his.

"That would be my call, scholar," she stated, amusement light on every word. "How about we finish this later? You can even mock me for not understanding anything you painted."

That would be like mocking a one year old for not being able to speak coherently.

"Try not to get lost while coming down the stairs, Warden."


	5. Wound

xxxXXXxxx

Leliana had dreamt about this meeting. On those moments when she didn't know what to do or where to go, she had thought 'she would know what to do'. Tasha had that effect on people. Surely, she had doubts, she faltered but she was just so good at hiding it from everyone, to keep everyone from seeing just how she was just as afraid as everyone else. It had taken Leliana years to see her Warden as someone fallible.

Why wasn't she hugging her, then? Why was she angry? Why did she feel like crying and screaming and slapping that beloved face when all she had dreamed over the last months was to see her and hope beyond hope she had a way out of the mess they were digging themselves into? Why wasn't Tasha speaking?

She simply wasn't. The elf had followed her friend upstairs, nodding here and there when a stare met her eyes and then had taken a seat at her table and waited.

She should say something! Hadn't she known Leliana had been searching for her for months? That not even Teagan knew of her whereabouts? That her family missed her? _That she had needed her!_ Selfish, selfish of Tasha, disappearing without a word to her friends and old companions, to wander off in who knew what task without a message, to whichever region without someone with her. How foolish was she? Did she think no one would worry? No one would try to find her?

"Teagan knew, didn't he?"

Of course he did. Of course. It was probably why he had chosen to contact the crown immediately instead of turning against Redcliffe and its mages with an army right at his back. Without the Wardens around, he had played it safe. The Arl was no fool. He wouldn't take such a risky step without the steady presence of his wife nearby. He knew. He _knew_ and he had said nothing.

"And Alistair?"

No. No, the King wouldn't know. Even after ten years as a King, Alistair couldn't lie any better. He relied on his Chancellor for that, on that aged face which played with lives as well as ministrel would play its fiddle and Leliana was far too gone to fall for the kindly old man act. No. Tasha had lied to those two men too and the lies had slipped onto her.

"You're late."

Late to save Most Holy, late to help, late to lead, late to be what they had needed her to be. And Leliana, who knew she was being selfish, who knew the elf had given half her life to a cause and couldn't be asked anything more, not after laying her life on an anvil and escaping by the width of a hair, couldn't help but to be angry because she had needed her.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Tasha's hand slipped over the table until it found hers and tightened.

"I don't think you want me to just yet. Do you?"

The crows' calls were her only reply.


	6. Healing

xxxXXXxxx

The black haired mage whispered a complaint when Cole entered the library. He didn't like him much, Cole knew. He was afraid his wounds would be shown to the world, bared, bleeding, barely scabbed and only the Inquisitor was keeping him sane, tightly held together. That was fine. Not many did. Varric did and the Inquisitor did and Solas understood. That was enough.

They called up to him though. It didn't matter the age, the race, the location. They would hurt and he would follow without noticing, a moth and flames deeply hidden underneath skin. This one had left a heavy trail with every step, a shroud of what ifs, nostalgia and sadness hanging in the very air as it passed.

"Regret and sadness and pain, I was not there, I could have kept them at bay, sometimes one voice is enough, one scream is enough, selfish, selfish, I was so selfish when she wasn't, you see? You can't give everything. You can't blame yourself for someone else's actions. It's not right. She's not right."

A small sound came from somewhere around his waist. Affirmative, _you're right_. A dog sat right by the door. Large brown eyes stared up at the spirit while a short stubby tail banged quietly against the floor. Dogs were odd. They felt things on the moment, affection, displeasure, happiness. This dog was odder. He felt like a person. A person covered in fur with weapons for hands and loyalty for a heart, emotions rolling about like the wind against the grass.

"Who are you?"

A little tilt of the large head, a sound that was a little joking. How was he supposed to answer anyway? He was a dog. Just a dog. Just like he was just a spirit playing at a human.

"You can feel that too?"

Another sound, another unspoken yes. The dog's eyes turned to the stony staircase and this time the sadness was twofold, like the animal amplified it, like it had no beginning or end, it started upstairs and flowed into the creature, growing and growing as much as the weight against his throat. It wasn't fair.

"Wait here." He didn't forget, Cole noticed. He waited, sitting right at the end of the staircase as he moved through the shadows and approached the elf. The woman was distracted, a faint smile on her lips as she spoke with the Left-hand and they felt so similar, harsh and kind and sad, so very sad that it was a wonder how no one else in that tower could feel it.

Blind. Humans were very blind. The dog could see it, how couldn't they?

Dark wrapped around him as he ran, slipped in between humans and hands and arms before he found his target. The Left-hand liked this, every night, wine and spices, warm and comforting. The new woman might too. With his prize in hand, the spirit made his way back, past Solas, past Dorian, past the dog who still waited patiently all the way up to where the two women rested.

"Where did this come from?"

Cole stepped back, allowing the shadows to cover him and push him out of sight and close enough to feel the dog's cold snout against his fingers as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs. A warm tongue twitched out against his skin. It was almost like the being by his feet was laughing. Amused? Happy? Cole couldn't be sure.

"Smile," he whispered, concentrating on the figures above. "Unexpected, it feels warm, I can feel spices, this is nice, was it you? Distraction." A little sigh slipped through his lips. "It's not good enough, is it? She is still sad."

Another sound from the animal. It sounded like words, almost there, almost audible.

_For a while,_ the dog seemed to say with his gentle brown eyes, _for a while. It helps. Little things help her. Make her smile. Make her remember it'll be good._ But it didn't feel enough in that moment. How did humans stand it?

"Assan!" The elf's voice ripped through the air, crossing the stairs, shedding away the shadows without warning. "Assan! Come on, boy. We got to go."

_My turn. My turn to help_.

Cole smiled faintly, feeling as the lingering warmth of the animal leaving him. Good boy. He was a good boy. Assan was. Wouldn't it be nice to have someone like that?

"Cole? What are you doing here?" The spirit had a flash of blonde hair and maternal features, concerned and caring, _missing my home, missing my family, warmth_. The Inquisitor was so nice. She didn't understand a lot and she tried too much and she was just so so very _nice_.

"Can I have a dog?"

A blonde eyebrow rose slowly in reply.

"I'm not sure I want to ask, my boy."


	7. Need

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Do you know I'm a Templar, Grand Enchanter?"

They had never met in person. Oh, the rumors had arrived Weisshupt. The Warden who had survived when she shouldn't have. The second elf to kill an Archdemon. The twice-Arlessa who wasn't supposed to be one to begin with. Her likeness had been divulged for the records and it was a fairly acceptable one, Fiona realized critically. Her features were simple, an angular face with eyes maybe a little too large, thin lips and a thick scar on her jaw, crossing all the way down her neck to fade into her armor.

The first word that came to mind to describe her was Loghain, odd as it sounded. The woman had the same calmness to her, the same cold anger bubbling under the surface that the once-General carried in his veins. No wonder they were friends.

"Not a proper one, mind you," the Warden continued as if her reply truly didn't matter. "I made no vows. I don't really like messing with the Chantry and taking lyrium is not that appealing to me." The woman was leaning against the banister, uncaring of the possibility of falling. By her fear rested a mabari, his large body conveniently close to his owner's and eyes which seemed a hair width away from savagery. They didn't leave her for a moment and that too was a warning, a reminder that she faced two opponents instead of one.

Because, make no mistake, this woman was one. As sure as her name was Fiona.

And the mage supposed she could understand. While her family had been left – mostly – unscathed, they _had _been thrown outside of their home after an act of kindness which should have granted them peace and quiet.

She couldn't understand the woman's smile though. It made her wary.

"Still, it's useful. Alistair taught me during the Blight. King Alistair, that is, you know who he is, don't you?" _Your son, you see? He taught me to find someone like you. During the Blight you and every other warden in this blasted continent chose to ignore._ The words resounded in her mind even as the Commander kept them unsaid and Fiona felt a rush of anger flow through her. The girl knew. Her son had told her or Loghain had spoken too much but, from whichever source she had learned, everything was a weapon.

"You know why I did it. You'd do the same to save your Wardens."

"Ally with a Tevinter mage who wanted to indenture me?" The elf's lips moved into another smile, almost genuine. It was a good fabrication. "Not likely. Unless there was a Blight involved."

"Because you'd do whatever was necessary."

"You know how it goes. You were one. You still swore."

She'd do whatever it took but her loyalties had shifted. Mages were her people, not the Wardens. The Taint wouldn't take her, the Taint wouldn't rule her life anymore and that was strangely saddening. It would connect her to her son. It'd even connect her to this woman, so self-righteous and proud of her clean choices. Kill darkspawn. Sacrifice. Straight-forward.

Fiona was aware she was reading everything like it was simple and forgetting that all Wardens did the hard choices and this woman, who had begun her rule during a Blight, would have those doubly so.

"What now?" The Enchanter asked. "Do you want me to apologize? Ask forgiveness? I did what I needed to do to save my people. I made sure no one was harmed."

"I understand. I do. You were stuck between a wall and a hard place. I suppose asking for the Crown's help didn't pass through your mind or you were so desperate any port in a storm. I understand."

Another one of those smiles before the woman moved. And she, rusty, old, distracted by a show of words, didn't manage to avoid the attack.

The punch was dry, short and held nothing back. Pain exploded on her jaw, running up and down her head until Fiona was sure she was going to pass out at any moment. It didn't diminuish as she fell down. No, it seemed to widen because now it was her bones complaining, her back against the floor and her head meeting the banister with enough strength to rattle all her thoughts into nothing. Instinctively, the Enchanter reached for her mana, for the magic hidden underneath her, but nothing replied to her calling.

_Do you know I'm a Templar, Grand Enchanter?_

"Just because I understand doesn't mean I have to forgive," said the carefree tone of the other woman as she knelt. "Cross the border to Ferelden and I'll know. Walk near Redcliffe again and I'll kill you. Come near my family and you'll wish you were dead." Blue eyes crossed her line of vision, blurred and bright in the middle of her confusion. "This is my only warning, Madam Enchanter. I don't usually bother."

Silence fell on what seemed the whole floor. They all seemed to be waiting for the situation to degenerate further. Fade if the Tevinter wouldn't. Fiona could almost imagine him reaching over his book, comfortable in his first row seat to the Enchanter's humiliation.

But she was alive.

"Wardens don't waste," she whispered, fighting that damned urge to laugh.

Somewhere between the pain and the dizziness, Fiona saw only the calm eyes and that unchanging smile as the Commander replied. "There is nothing wrong with a couple of bruises on our tools."


End file.
